He spat tobacco juice, “Dry up that ol’ mouth. I don’t want no talk, nigguh.”
Once inside, “Boss, hand me down a pair fer this nigguh.” After cuffing me tightly to the bars, “These cuffs’ll git a nigguh’s heart right.”
Hanging about four hours, the pain made me forget my anger. The cuffs were one thing all the cons agreed on, “They can make the blind see, the lame walk, and the deaf hear.”
I twisted into a hundred different positions seeking relief, hoping to find one that even resembled comfort, but it was no use. The hours snailed by until finally the bright lights were on and the turnkey unlocked me. I made it to the latrine quick as I could, splashed water on my face, and got ready for breakfast. Even though the last time I ate was at the johnny ground, I wasn’t all that hungry. Just tired as hell and aching. My rib cage felt like somebody had taken a crowbar and pried them six inches apart.
“Number 1!”
At the end of the day when we got out on the turnrow and headed for the building, I didn’t let up. The squad was strung out behind me like a string of beads, running to keep up. Occasionally, I heard complaints behind me to “slow dis muthafucka down, man.”
We were panting when we arrived at the backgate. I was so exhausted I was about to drop, but wasn’t about to show it. I had run them raggedy all day.
“Go ‘Head!”
I could hardly wait to get on my bunk after supper. I was half-asleep when several Number 1 hoe workers came over to my bunk. “Say man,” Cap Rock said. I opened my eyes. “Whut th’ fuck wuz dat shit all bout? Rippin an runnin up an down dem fuckin rows lak you wuz crazy or sump’n, an dat man wuz on our asses lak stank on shit. We wuz lucky he didn’ cut us all out at th’ backgate.”
Jack Hammer added, “Yeah, man. You wuz messin wit our hog an bread doin dat!”
“Well,” I said, “seems thas the way y’all wanna do it. None uv y’all don’t think I kin carry the lead row no how. Hell, I didn’ ask for it! Whut wuz I spose ta do? Not take it?”
Their blank stares told me that no matter what I said, I was still unwanted.
Cap Rock spoke up again, “If dat’s th’ way you feel bout it, you know you gon hafta burn ever one a us out. Cuz afta dis shit you pulled, we gon CARRY yo lil’ ass awhile! An I don’t thank you kin hold ‘em.”
“We’ll see,” I said as they walked away. It was as if a bounty had been placed on me, and they were acting like a pack of hungry dogs. If “the man” was on my ass, so were they; and I hated them for that.
I closed my eyes again, trying to drift off to sleep. My body was bone-tired and wanted to sleep, but my mind was afraid to let go completely. There was a constant battle going on inside me between those two forces. I couldn’t afford to miss anything; my survival depended on it. Somebody was always waiting for somebody else to fall asleep. In the wee hours the lecherous building tenders went on the prowl. And the creatures of the night, Ol’ Toe Sucker & Company, came out.
Like Toe Sucker, these vampires lived in the tank’s ghetto, the back bunks closest to the commodes. When the tank lights are dimmed, that end is the darkest. Along with Toe Sucker, these phantoms waited until the others went to sleep to attack. A couple of them were just bold pests and fairly harmless. If they saw a con’s leg hanging off his bunk, they’d tiptoe up to him, feel and rub on it, and jack off. The sneakier ones really didn’t go for blood and were content just to pass by an exposed leg or thigh, touch it quickly, go to the back and jack off while sitting on the commode gazing back up the alley at it. The few who actually climbed in the bunks with sleeping cons and started hunching them got their asses beat so much they finally kicked the habit.
The endless cycle of seasons brought us back to corn harvesting. When we first started pulling it, four huge John Deere combines were sent to the camp to help us out. The cons operating the equipment, along with their supervisor, were transferred from unit to unit to help with the corn and maize harvests. Every row the combines harvested was a row we wouldn’t have to pull by hand. Those fourteen-foot sacks full of corn got mighty heavy to drag down them long, city-block rows.
Number 1 hoe was moving through the wind-tangled stalks like a swarm of hungry locust. When we got to the end of our rows we emptied the heavy, gut-busting sackfuls into the trailers parked on the turnrow.
We were “high rollin” and close enough to take a better look at those rumbling green giants. The machines were doing the whole operation at one time: pulling, shucking, and spitting the kernels into a tractor-drawn cart running alongside.
I looked up from my row to see Big Devil’s Chevrolet speeding down the turnrow, leaving a swirl of dust behind. His presence in the field automatically caused everybody to speed up. He stopped directly in front of our squad and got out.
While sitting on the hood talking with Cap’n Smooth and Sundown, Big Devil pointed toward the combines. I was dumping my sackful into the trailer ten or fifteen feet from them when Big Devil beckoned for Boss Band. He walked his horse over to the car. “When yore nigguhs finish emptyin up, take ‘em over yonder an y’all ketch in next to them combines. Brang them rows back thisa way,” motioning across the field.
“Whut if we ketch up wit ‘em?”
“Go roun ‘em,” Big Devil quipped devilishly.
“Awright, you Number 1 nigguhs, git them Gotdam sacks emptied up an git on ‘way frum ‘at trailer. Sums you nigguhs gon git a load a buckshot in yore ass if you don’t tighten up! Ol’ Red!” Whenever he called out my “name,” it sounded like he was calling a horse.
“Oh Lawd!”
“Head ‘em ovah yonder an ketch in next ta them combines. Take ‘em on!”
As we flew to the rows to catch in, Big Devil sent the other squads in the opposite direction. This left only the Number 1 hoe squad pulling corn on the same side of the turnrow as the combines. We covered the couple hundred yards, fanned out, and caught in headed the same way as the four combines. Cap Rock and I were out front, speeding down our rows. The rest of the Number 1 workers were angled off, in handshaking distance of one another. We pulled within twenty yards and were catching up.
Big Devil borrowed Cap’n Smooth’s horse. He looked like he was riding a pogo stick bouncing up and down in the saddle as the strawberry roan galloped toward the combine supervisor’s pickup. When he reached it, the supervisor jumped out and pulled off his hat. After their brief conversation, the supervisor walked across the field and waved his hands until he got the operators’ attention. He gave them a hand signal to rev up their engines, pull out the throttle, and run the machines wide open. They began pulling away from us until …
Boss Band shouted, “Ol’ Red!”
“Oh Lawd!”
He fired a shot into the ground behind me. It was close enough to kick the dirt up on my back. “You bet not let them fuckin combines gitta way frum you! The resta you thangs betta lay wit ‘em!” He rode his horse back and forth behind the squad, using his reins as a whip to drive and prod. “Git them Gotdam rows on up yonder wit that lead row nigguh!”
He shot again—somewhere. I pulled corn so fast it was as if I had put it on automatic. All the squad could see was the tail end of my sack. The scent of that gunpowder was all the additional motivation I needed. My sack was getting heavier and heavier to drag, slowing me down.
Boss Band spotted my cumbersome handicap, “Ol’ Red!”
“Oh Lawd!” thinking he was going to shoot again.
“Whenevuh you git a sackful, jes git out uv it an leave it lay. Resta you nigguhs pull up even wit that lead row nigguh’s sack an git out uv ‘em.”
He hollered across the turnrow for Water Boy Brown to bring some empties. As soon as he dropped the large bundle in the middle of the squad, we grabbed two apiece and tore out again. The combines finished their rows and were heading back on others with a fifty yard lead on us. Boss Band galloped to catch up, yelling final instructions to the water boy, “Have sum more sacks waitin at the other end when we git thar.”
When the word reached Bad Eye, we double clutched it after those combines like a pack of whippets after a jackrabbit. My sack was full middle ways down the row. I dropped it, unfolded the empty hanging from my free shoulder, and lit out again. When they evened with my full sack, they did the same. The machines had the edge, they never stopped.
I was gaining. I filled up another sack and got an empty. All my concentration was on those ears of corn. Just like a magician, I made them disappear into my sack. This time when I bent down and straightened up again, I reached the end of my row the same time the combines did. They were catching more rows, and going the other way.
The squad finished their rows and got fresh sacks. We took off down the turnrow to catch in, this time right beside them. Boss Band fired again. That last shot evened EVERYBODY with the machines. The combines were running wide open—but so were we. The noisy engines drowned out Boss Band. He must have said something, but we didn’t hear. He rode his horse to the front of the squad and I saw his mouth shout out, “Go ‘Head!” as he leveled his scatter-barrel at us.
We passed the combines and beat them to the end by at least thirty feet. The operators shook their heads in disbelief when we went by. There would be no catching us now. We were reaching the ends of our rows a good twenty yards ahead of them every time. We kept it up all day. Big Devil was so pleased with our performance he radioed the agricultural director at the Central Unit to send the heavy equipment trucks to come pick up the combines and “take ‘em sumwhere they need ‘em.”
After supper, Cap Rock walked up beside me at the face basin, “Lil’ ol’ nigguh, we gon run yo ass so damn fass you ain’ gon know if you comin or goin!”
“Say man, fuck alla y’all right dead in the ass! Whut the hell am I spose to do when he shoots an tells me to tighten it up? I don’t plan on gittin shot for goin too slow! If you can’t keep up, tough shit! Didn’ none uv y’all wait for me when I useta be way behind. We been over this shit befo, Cap Rock. If you don’t lak the way I’m carryin the lead row, why don’tcha tell it to the man!”
“If dat’s th’ way you feel bout it, you know you gon havta burn ever one uv us out. We gon drive yo lil’ ass awhile, an I don’t thank you kin hold it.”
“We’ll see.”
“Look, man, you know you can’t hold me if I really want to pass yo ass. An you sho can’t beat me pickin cotton! Only reason I been lettin you stay ahead a me is I don’t wanna job you to th’ man.”
“Bullshit! You ain’ been lettin me do shit! Cap Rock, I kin out work you any day uv the week!”
“Lak hell you kin! I’m damn sho gon see when cotton pickin time cums roun again! I’m gon have dat man on yo lil’ ass so much you gon wish you wuz dead. Lil’ nigguh, you don’t know who you talkin to! Thas how I got my name,” referring to an area in West Texas known as “the Cap Rock,” noted for growing cotton. “I wuz born an raised in a cotton patch,” he boasted.
“An thas where they gon bury yo ass if you keep on fuckin with me! Cap Rock, we don’t havta wait til cotton pickin time. Me an you kin git it on anytime!”
Later that evening Slocum, who had just returned from the Walls hospital after a hernia operation, told us Road Runner had died about three months ago. Black Rider commented, “Greyhound, Cheetah, now Road Runner. Them wuz th’ three baddest lead row nigguhs I ever run behind, but that ass-kickin turnrow don’t take no shit.”
I decided I wasn’t going to let “that ass-kickin turnrow” kill me the way it had them, but it sure was breathing down my neck. It was so bad now that the months ahead would outweigh a motherfucker by ninety pounds. The workers in the squad tried to run me down one by one. On a daily basis, somebody challenged me to a “burnout” by working ahead or walking in front of me on the turnrow. And nobody is supposed to be in front of the lead row man.
Most of the cons were just mouth and if they could hog you, they would. From experience I knew the first blow generally won the fight, so the very moment anyone threatened, I struck. Boss Band never cut me out for fighting. So rather than race with them one by one, I began hitting them with my hoe, fist, or whatever to make them stay in line behind me. I chopped Kool Aid in the head with my hoe and damn near took off one of his ears for walking ahead of me on the turnrow. When he fell, Boss Band made me and some of the squad drag him off to one side for the water wagon to pick up when it came by.
It was cotton chopping time again, and we must have been working fast enough to please Boss Band. At least he hadn’t shot yet. I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw that Railhead Shorty had pulled up beside me, bucking for my job. “Say man, gitcha ass back in line where you b’long!” I growled. He kept chopping his row even with mine, grinning and gunning his motor by chopping a little ahead of me, which was telling the boss I wasn’t going fast enough for him. I hollered, “Oh Lawd! Gittin ‘em over here, Boss!”
“Go ‘Head!”
We took off. Nearing the end of our rows for the first time, we chopped side by side. Hurrying to beat him out on the turnrow to the next set of rows, I tripped over the raggedy legs of my pants, got up quickly and tore after him. I saw no signs of his letting up as he swooshed his aggie blade between the young cotton stalks plucking out the weeds, leaving the standard four stalks to the hill.
I shifted into “double nuther” gear and went by him so fast it threw his timing off. In an effort to catch up, he stopped chopping and walked up even with me, leaving a long skip of grass behind him.
Boss Band rode over to check our rows, saw the grass Railhead Shorty left, and made him go back to re-chop it. He stayed right at his heels, cursing him with every breath, driving him to catch up. Railhead Shorty made it to the turnrow and dropped down on all fours. Boss Band tried to trample him with his big black horse, Ol’ Satan, who had a cold-blooded disposition and would attack when we got too close.
Railhead Shorty barely rolled out of Satan’s path. Boss Band tried again. He got to his feet, staggered and stumbled toward the squad, but fell again. Boss Band hit him with the barrel of his shotgun as he tried to get up. Blood splattered, Railhead Shorty was sprawled out in the middles.
“Ol’ Chinaman, Ol’ Mae Widder! Cum back heah an drag this rotten bastard out yonder on ‘at turnrow. Tell ‘at water nigguh to pour sum water on ‘em when y’all git up thar.”
They grabbed an arm apiece and began dragging him. “One a you nigguhs cum back heah an git that sorry sonuvabitch’s hoe an take it wit ‘em.”
Both dropped Railhead Shorty’s arms at the same time, and started back for the hoe. “I jes need one a you nigguhs!” They put on the brakes. Boss Band shouted angrily, “Ol’ Chinaman! Git this Gotdam aggie ‘fore I shoot both uv you ignant bastards! Tell that water nigguh when he gits this nigguh revived tell ‘em he betta ketch up wit us, cuz if I havta go to that house ‘thout ‘em I’m gon kill ‘em. Resta you nigguhs git on ‘way frum heah! Go ‘Head!”
We finished chopping a couple more sets of rows. Railhead Shorty was on his way back and soon as he got to us he caught in and started chopping.
Boss Band slowly walked Satan over and stopped him about ten feet from me. I felt his eyes burning in my back, “Ol’ Red!”
“Oh Lawd!”
“Whar you frum, nigguh?”
Here we go with that “whut color wuz yore mama” shit again. “Longview, Boss.” I don’t want no conversation with this muthafucka. Why is he over here fuckin with me?
“Well, they ain’ got no cotton to ‘mount ta nuthin in Longview,” he commented.
“Nawsuh, they sho don’t.”
“Whar you learn how to chop cotton lak ‘at?”
“Right here, Boss.”
“How long you been heah?”
“Goin on five years,
Boss.”
“I wuz watchin yore row when y’all wuz goin up thru thar to see if you wuz gon be leavin a buncha them weeds. Gotdam me, I never seed a nigguh racehossin up an down a row lak ‘at, an clean it thatta way. Why hell, I knowed that nigguh wudn’ gon keep up wit you. I’da bet money on it.”
He paused a moment. “Thank thas whut I’m gon name you. OL’ RACEHOSS!! Thas whut I’ma namin you. You hear me nigguh!?”
“OH LAWD!”
“When I calls you that, you betta answer!” Then shouting to the squad, “Did the resta y’all nigguhs hear that?!”
“OH LAWD!”
“Ol’ Racehoss, y’all take ‘em rows on away frum heah! Go ‘Head!”
From then on, “Ol’ Racehoss” was my name. After all, I’d been named by the mighty Kill-A-Band. The bosses called me that, and the cons called me just plain Race, for short.
That night in the tank I got the ten Number 1 hoe workers together and told them, “I ain’ no Road Runner, an you chumps ain’ gon drive me down on that fuckin turnrow. Some uv y’all think you kin out work me. Maybe you kin. I ain’ gon keep racin y’all no one atta time no mo. I’m gon race one mo uv y’all, an thas it. I don’t give a damn which one uv you it is, but I tell you one muthafuckin thing. If I burn out whoever y’all pick, the next time one uv you bastards git in front a me, I’m gon try to kill him. Who’s it gonna be?” Even before I said it, I knew who they were going to choose.
Thirty-Five spoke up, “We pick Cap Rock.”
Cap Rock said, “It’s OK by me.”
“Do we agree that if I win, y’all will quit fuckin with me?” I asked.
They spoke among themselves. Black Rider answered, “Okay man, if you burn Cap Rock out, we’ll letcha up.”
“Y’all got a deal, an watch me wear his ass to a frazzle.”
They went their way in the tank; I went mine. Tomorrow’s race was set; this burnathon was for all the glory marbles.
When we got to the field the next morning and caught our rows, Cap Rock took off down his and got ahead of everybody in the squad. I kept a steady cotton chopping beat, allowing him to get no more than three or four feet ahead of me. He had a good drag, and held the lead all the way to the end. Even out on the turnrow when we headed to catch some more rows, he walked slightly out in front of me, jobbing me. The squad knew what was going on, and by now, so did Boss Band. Cap Rock was “askin” for my job.
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